Lionheart (34 page)

“Well,” he said, “now you’ve been kissed, Berenguela. But I promised
irlanda
that we’d get to Bagnara by noon, and if we do not, she’ll put some vile Sicilian curses on my head.”

Berengaria did not find it as easy as Richard to return to the real world. She could still taste his mouth, feel his hands on her waist, and she had no idea who Irlanda was or where Bagnara was, either. But when he took her hand and propelled her toward the door, she followed obediently for several steps. Stopping abruptly then, she looked up at him in delighted surprise. “You called me Berenguela!”

“Why not? It is your name, after all.”

“Yes, but for the past five months, I’ve heard only Berengaria, the French version, for I was told it was more fitting for your queen. Berenguela is my real name, what I am called in Navarre. And you remembered!”

“I like the musical sound of it,” he said, reminding her that he was a poet, too. “I find it more pleasing to the ear than Berengaria. But it does make sense for you to have a French name when the majority of my subjects speak French. So we’ll compromise. You can be Berengaria at court, Berenguela in bed.”

Not waiting for her response, he opened the door and started swiftly down the stairs, towing Berengaria behind him. Feeling as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind, she let herself be swept along, for what else could she do?

JOANNA HAD MANAGED to lay out an impressive dinner, given that it was Lent and she’d had only one day’s notice. The priory guest hall was filled with linen-draped trestle tables for all the people accompanying Eleanor, Berengaria, and Richard. But she’d reserved the high table for her family, not willing to share her mother with any others, however briefly.

Berengaria found herself forgotten in the jubilation of the Angevin family reunion, but she didn’t mind. She’d been deeply touched by Joanna’s joy, and slightly envious, too, for she’d have given almost anything to see her own mother again. They’d been talking nonstop during the meal and she was content to listen and to learn, although she did not catch all of their words. She’d spoken the
lenga romana
with Eleanor and Richard, but apparently Joanna’s grasp of that language had waned during her years in Sicily, and they were conversing in French, at times too rapidly for Berengaria, whose own French was adequate but not yet fully fluent. There was no mistaking their pleasure, though, and after all the stories she’d heard of the Devil’s Brood, it was reassuring to see such obvious family affection. She did not understand how Richard could have hated his own father and brothers, but there could be no doubt that he loved his mother and sister, and she took heart from that.

Richard remembered her from time to time; occasionally he smiled and once he winked. But for most of the meal, he was focused upon his mother, for he and Joanna were competing for Eleanor’s attention. Joanna wanted to talk of family, the one she’d left behind and the one she’d found in Sicily. But Richard was intent upon political matters, and as soon as the last course was done, he shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.

“I need to borrow Maman for a while,
irlanda
, but I promise to have her back at Bagnara tonight.”

“Richard, no!” Joanna flung her napkin down and jumped to her feet, too. “It has only been nine months since you’ve last seen Maman, but we’ve been separated for nigh on fifteen years!”

Berengaria was astonished that Joanna should dare to challenge Richard like that. She enjoyed a free and easy relationship with her own brother, but Richard seemed much more formidable than Sancho; moreover, she’d not have disputed Sancho in public. Richard showed no signs of anger, though. Leaning down, he kissed his sister on the cheek, saying with a coaxing smile, “I know how much you’ve missed Maman. However, it cannot be helped. We’ve got to talk about the news from Rome.”

Joanna was not won over and continued to argue until Eleanor intervened, saying she’d make sure that Richard brought her back from Messina by Vespers. Watching wide-eyed, Berengaria found herself hoping that Richard would not forget to bid her farewell, for it was obvious to her that his mind was very much on that “news from Rome.” Her worry was needless, for he took the time to kiss her hand and to tell Joanna to look after her before he escorted his mother from the hall.

Berengaria had assumed that she and Richard would spend their first day together. Glancing toward Joanna, she saw that the other woman was frowning and she wondered if Richard’s sister found this as awkward as she did. While Joanna had welcomed her warmly, they were still strangers, after all. Richard had mentioned casually that Joanna would be accompanying them to the Holy Land, and Berengaria wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She found Joanna somewhat intimidating, for she was extremely beautiful and worldly and self-confident, all the things that Berengaria knew she herself was not.

“Did you ever want to throttle your brother, Berengaria?” Joanna made a wry face. “I ought to have known he’d pull a sneaky trick like this, for he has not enough patience to fill a thimble.”

“Is he always so . . . so sudden?” Berengaria asked, and Joanna grinned.

“All the males in my family are like that. My father was the worst of the lot, unable to be still even during Mass. At least Richard can get through Prime or Vespers without squirming. But once he gets an idea into his head, he wants to act upon it straightaway.”

Berengaria was disarmed by Joanna’s easy bantering and ventured to confide, “Things seem to happen so fast with him. That will take getting used to, I think.”

“You’ll have to,” Joanna said, “for he’s not likely to slow down. I’d say the secret of marriage to Richard is just to hold on tight and enjoy the ride!”

Berengaria flushed, for as innocent as she was, she still could recognize a double entendre when she heard one. As she met Joanna’s eyes, she saw in them amusement and a glint of mischief. But she saw, too, genuine friendliness and, in that moment, she decided she was glad that Joanna would be coming with them. As she entered this new and alien Angevin world, what better guide could she have than Richard’s favorite sister?

CHAPTER 14

MARCH 1191

Messina, Sicily

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, regarding her son with affectionate, faintly suspicious hazel eyes. Richard had explained why he’d—as he put it—switched horses in midgallop, designating his little nephew Arthur as his heir instead of his brother John. He’d been candid about his troubles with the recalcitrant citizens of Messina, and he’d surprised her by speaking well of Tancred, insisting that he’d made sufficient restitution for his ill treatment of Joanna. But so far he’d not said a word about the “news from Rome,” and she was wondering why. Before she could ask him, though, he launched into a scathing account of the French king’s duplicity, and she listened with interest, marveling that Philippe could have been a son of the mild-mannered Louis’s loins.

“So Philippe is the one responsible for making me miss your wedding. I owe him a debt for that, and will look forward to repaying it.”

Richard smiled, thinking that he’d have loved to witness his mother’s retribution. “Alas, it will have to wait, for Philippe is no longer in Messina. He sailed for Outremer this morning at dawn, in such haste I could almost believe he did not want to meet you and my bride, Maman.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said truthfully; she’d wanted to judge for herself the danger that the French king posed to her son. “Meeting Heinrich was quite interesting, for I now know that if he were cut, he’d bleed pure ice. I was hoping to have an opportunity to take Philippe’s measure, too.”

“Philippe is more of an annoyance than a threat,” Richard said derisively. “If he were cut, he’d most likely faint, since I doubt that he’s ever seen blood up close, for certes not on the battlefield.”

“You still have not told me why we must confer in private like this. If I were not the trusting sort, Richard, I’d think that you have something to tell me that I’ll not want to hear.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a fond smile. “You know me far too well, Maman.” Rising, he busied himself in fetching her a cup of wine, such an obvious delaying tactic that she did not bother to point it out. “Last night a messenger arrived from Rome,” he said after he’d resumed his seat. “The Pope has been called home to God—or the Devil, depending upon which master he served. Clement died on March twentieth.”

“And . . . ?” Eleanor prompted. “Have they chosen his successor yet?”

“Not officially, but I have it on good authority that they’ll select one of the Orsini family, Cardinal Giacinto of Santa Maria in Scola Greca. I believe you’ve met him, Maman?”

“I did,” she confirmed, “many years ago. An odd choice, for he must be well into his eighties by now.”

“Eighty-five, I’m told.” Richard leaned forward, his eyes probing hers. “As little as I liked Clement, at least I knew whom I was dealing with. And he was receptive to English needs as long as I made it worth his while. So his death is inconvenient, for I’d recently put several requests before the papal curia, one of them to confirm Longchamp again as his papal legate.”

She raised an eyebrow, for she’d heard in Rome of the growing complaints about Longchamp’s heavy-handed rule. “Is that wise, Richard?”

“I know,” he conceded, “I know. . . . He has been collecting enemies as hungrily as a squirrel hoarding acorns. I’m not happy about it, but his loyalty is not in question. He needs to be reined in ere he goes too far, though, so I am sending the Archbishop of Rouen back to England to do just that. Between the two of you, you ought to be able to keep Longchamp from getting too besotted with his own importance.”

Eleanor thought the Archbishop of Rouen was a good choice. “I still do not see why we could not have discussed this at Bagnara.”

“Because I need you to be in Rome for the new Pope’s consecration, and Joanna will not be happy about that.”

“Neither am I, Richard. I’ve been here less than a day!”

“I know how much I ask of you, Maman. But we must make sure that the new Pope is friendly to English interests, and to do that, we need to get to him ere Philippe and Heinrich do.” Seeing her frown, he said before she could refuse, “There is no one better than you at such diplomacy. Moreover, you already know the man and none would doubt your authority to speak for me.”

Eleanor’s eyes searched his face intently. After a silence that he found ominous, she said with a sigh, “Very well. But it will be up to you to reconcile Joanna to our abrupt departure. I am sure she’d expected to have some time to get to know Berengaria.”

Richard looked uncomfortable. “Joanna will not be returning with you, Maman. I want her to accompany us to Outremer. It will not be easy for Berenguela in the Holy Land, and I thought she’d feel less homesick if she had Joanna for company. That is even more true now that we cannot wed until the end of Lent, for her reputation will suffer if she does not have a woman of high rank to act as her . . . duenna, as the Spanish call it.”

Eleanor bit her lip to keep from protesting. As little as she liked it, his reasoning made sense. “I will not be rushing off on the morrow,” she warned. “I’ll act as your envoy at the papal court, but I want some time with my daughter first.”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily and leaned over to graze her cheek with a grateful kiss before holding out his hand to assist her to her feet. “I am truly sorry that we cannot wed whilst you’re here, Maman. You missed so many family events during those years of confinement. It does not seem fair that you’ll be deprived of my wedding, too.”

Eleanor was both surprised and touched that he understood how much it had meant to her. “So . . .” she said with a warm smile, “what do you think of your bride?”

“She seems quite suitable,” he said with an easy smile of his own. “From all you’ve told me, she acquitted herself well during the hardships of your journey. I think she’ll make a good queen.”

Eleanor thought so, too. But for a moment, she felt an unexpected pang of regret, for she was in her twilight while Berengaria’s sun was just rising. Almost at once, she rejected that twinge of envy, for she’d not have traded her past for her daughter-in-law’s youth. She’d experienced so much that Berengaria never would, that few women had, and she smiled, thinking that no man would ever have dismissed her with Richard’s casual “quite suitable.” She’d wanted more, and if her memories were bittersweet now, they still testified to a life lived to the fullest, a life that had not lacked for passion or adventure or the élan of her beloved Aquitaine.

Richard was looking at her curiously. “You’ve an odd expression, Maman. If you were a cat, you’d be licking cream from your whiskers. What were you thinking?”

She gave him a half-truth. “Of my marriage and yours. Have you given any thought to how awkward it will be for Philippe, having to bear witness as you wed the woman who replaced his sister?”

“Why? You think I ought to ask Philippe to give the bride away?” He laughed down at her, stirring memories of the mischievous boy he’d once been, and she stilled the voice whispering that he took his enemies too lightly, for she knew he’d not have heeded her words of warning.

ELEANOR DID NOT DEPART for another four days, despite Richard’s coaxing. It was not until the afternoon of April 4 that her ship’s oarsmen began to maneuver their way out into the harbor. Richard, Joanna, and Berengaria stood on the quay, and Eleanor continued to return their farewell waves until Messina began to recede into the distance. A northwest wind had robbed the sun of much of its warmth, but Hawisa stayed loyally beside the queen instead of withdrawing to the shelter of their canvas tent. She knew that this parting was painful for Eleanor, so she’d done her best to hide her own elation, her joy that she’d not have to lay eyes again upon her husband for many months, if ever. Men died so easily in the Holy Land, after all.

Eleanor remained on deck, indifferent to the spray splashing over the gunwale. “I knew Richard would be facing daily danger in Outremer,” she said at last. “But I’d not expected to have to fear for my daughter’s safety, too.”

Hawisa glanced at the queen’s profile, wishing she could say there was no cause for anxiety. She couldn’t, of course, for the deadly miasmas and maladies of those eastern climes did not discriminate between men and women. But she wanted to offer some comfort, for she greatly admired the aging queen. “I understand your concern, Madame. I feel confident, though, that the Lady Joanna will come to no harm, not with the king to protect her. I’d wager that even Death himself would think twice ere he took Richard on,” she said lightly, “for I’ve never met a man who was so invincible.”

Her attempt at humor failed. “Richard is not invincible,” Eleanor said sharply. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she added, so softly Hawisa barely heard her, “He just thinks he is. . . .”

MORGAN WAS VERY PLEASED to be one of the knights chosen to accompany Richard to Bagnara. Life had gotten hectic in Messina now that their departure date was so close, and he welcomed this brief respite from his supervisory duties at the waterfront. He welcomed, too, the chance to renew his flirtation with the Lady Mariam and to visit with his cousin Joanna. After Richard went off to see Berengaria, Morgan strolled over to the guest hall with Warin Fitz Gerald, Baldwin de Bethune, and the Préaux brothers, Pierre, Guilhem, and Jean.

They were in high spirits, anticipating a pleasant supper with Joanna and her ladies, joking that they might even get to spend the night, for plight-troths were almost as binding as actual marriage vows and they all knew Richard was not one for waiting. While they were excited to be leaving Sicily at long last and eager to reach the siege of Acre, they were also uneasy, dreading the dangerous sea voyage that lay ahead of them, and so their laughter was loud and their badinage caustic. They mocked Pierre, whose recent run of bad luck carried over into several dice games, they threatened to tell Mariam of Morgan’s frequent visits to a dockside tavern and a buxom, black-eyed servingmaid, and they tormented Guilhem, who’d unwisely confessed to a fear of the sea, with tales of shipwrecks and savage storms. But when Richard suddenly strode into the hall and tersely announced that they were returning to Messina, they got hastily to their feet, keeping their faces carefully blank and their tongues bridled. They nodded dutifully when he told them to fetch their ship’s crew from the town tavern, and it was only after he’d gone to find Joanna that they dared to exchange knowing grins.

Joanna was in the priory gardens, teaching Alicia how to play chess. She was taken by surprise when Richard appeared without warning, announced he was going back to Messina, and turned on his heel before she could respond. She caught up with him in a few strides, though, grasping his arm while she looked up into his face. “Why are you leaving so soon? You just got here—” Comprehension dawning, she tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “Oh . . . she turned you down?”

It was one of the few times she’d seen her brother off balance. He stared at her in open astonishment. “What are you, a witch?”

“It hardly took second sight to figure that out.” She glanced around to make sure Alicia was out of earshot, pleased to see the girl was already making a discreet exit. “You are obviously in a temper, and you have not been here long enough to quarrel with anyone but Berengaria. I’m surprised, though, that she was bold enough to tell you no.”

Richard had been surprised, too. “I had no idea she could be so stubborn. The plight-troth is binding upon us, the marriage but a formality—”

“Not to Berengaria.”

“Even if we’d not been plight-trothed, it is no great sin, venial at most.”

Joanna was not going to be sidetracked by a discussion of fornication. She didn’t doubt that most men shared Richard’s view, and many women, too. What mattered, though, was that Richard’s betrothed did not. “This is an argument you do not need—or even want—to win, Brother. I’m sure you’ve not been living like a monk whilst waiting for her arrival. If you’ve an itch, you can get it easily scratched in Messina. But if you coax or coerce Berengaria into doing something she sees as a grievous sin, you could make her skittish of the marriage bed. And Morgan and André say you never commit your troops to battle without first weighing the consequences and assessing the risks.”